Happenstance
by Skyelara
Summary: He's never seen her before, but from the way she's staring at him he wonders if she begs to differ. ChaseXMolly


She quietly nurses the drink placed precariously in front of her, swinging from left to right on the bar stool. Her chestnut hair frames her flushed cheeks and her earth colored eyes are trained on him, eyebrows furrowed together. He's never seen her before, but from the way she's staring at him he wonders if she begs to differ. That or it's the alcohol in her system playing tricks on her mind.

She opens her mouth like she wants to call out to him, but decides to gnaw on her lip instead. Chase decides to ignore her and keep his attention on the stew in front of him, throwing in a few more spices even though Yolanda criticized him for doing so mere hours earlier. Too much spice. Ha. As if he would do such a thing.

He's mixing the contents in the pot when she finally works up the courage to call out to him.

"Hey," she says, smacking her lips together. "Can I have a bowl of whatever you're making? It smells delicious."

He glances back at her and then looks to Kathy who is waitressing, but of course she's tangled up with Owen. Not his problem. "Ask the waitress. That's her job, not mine," he says before turning around.

Her eyes travel to Kathy before making a return trip to him. "She seems a bit busy at the moment."

"As am I."

She makes a face. Her petite nose crinkles. "Fine. I bet it doesn't taste nearly as good as it smells, anyway."

He stops, eyes narrowing in challenge. "I'll have you know," he says, placing his palms on the counter in front of her, "it tastes way better." His eyebrow shoots up in a dare.

She crosses her arms, unimpressed. "Prove it." There's a smirk playing on her lips.

"Fine," he says swiftly. He grabs a bowl and empties the steaming stew, setting it in front of her.

She beams and claps her hands together before grabbing the utensil and taking the first bite, making a hum of happiness. She chews for a few seconds before swallowing in a loud gulping noise. "Not bad," she declares before taking another bite.

"Not bad?" he asks, scoffing. "Maya's cooking is 'not bad'. Actually, it's pretty terrible. But this is a masterpiece."

The insult on Maya doesn't seem to faze her. She frowns in thought as she puts another spoonful into her mouth. "Ah," she says with a nod, "I know what your problem is, Mr. Not bad."

"Chase," he corrects, "and I happen to be an excellent cook. There's nothing wrong with that stew. It's your taste buds that are messed up."

"You know what your problem is? You're too cocky. That and there's too much spice. I can't taste any of the other flavors. Anyway, thanks for the meal." She jumps out of the stool, dumps a few coins on the countertop before sauntering out of the bar.

Chase stands there dumfounded before declaring that this outsider has no taste in fine dining.

* * *

The next time he sees her is a Tuesday night, a few days later. She slumps into the same bar seat, shoulders collapsing. She wipes her bangs from her eyes and he notices her hands are blistered and feverishly red. Her face is sunburnt and sweat clings her hair to her face. A few patches of dirt kiss her cheeks and nose. She appears as if breathing is a difficult task.

"What can I get you?" he asks, cleaning a glass with a rag. Kathy is busy getting the orders from the usual crowd.

"Water," she wheezes, "with ice. Lots of ice. And a lemon."

"That it?"

"That's all I want," she says, licking her cracked lips.

He grabs the pitcher and fills up the glass in his hand. "Big change from the alcohol the other night."

"Huh?" she says absentmindedly, "Oh, right. You're the guy who's not terrible at cooking."

He bites his tongue to keep from snapping back. He's been working on that lately since Yolanda threatened to cut him off her service. "Chase," he corrects, "and who might you be, my sober friend who has no taste in food?"

"It's hard to have taste in food when it's so over seasoned," she sighs, gulping down the water once he places it in front of her almost immediately. She slaps the glass on the counter so hard that he's afraid she'll break it. "Another please?"

He snatches the glass, refilling it. "Your name?" he asks with little patience.

"Molly," she says as she tucks a strand of hair behind her ear. "I'm the new farmer in town."

So she's the newcomer he's heard so much about. He could have guessed as much from the other night. New faces are hard to come by here. He knew some of the townspeople were taking bets on how long she would last. A city girl coming to the country to farm. What a joke.

"Ah," he says. "What brings you here?"

"Work," Molly says as if it's the simplest thing in the world. "I needed a job and saw an ad in the newspaper. So, here I am."

"Here you are. Seems like it's going pretty well judging by the amount of dirt you're wearing. Did anyone tell you it's supposed to stay in the ground and not to be worn as a fashion accessory?"

At that moment, she reminds him of the puffer fish Toby caught the other day at the pier. Her cheeks are blown and burning red with either anger or embarrassment. Probably a bit of both, judging by the tears in her glaring eyes.

"Just you wait," she says, standing so abruptly that the stool rattles before settling. "One day you'll be begging to use my fresh produce for your cooking and do you know what I'll say?"

"Please teach me how to harvest my vegetables?"

She stomps her foot. Her hands are balled at her side. It's childishly adorable, he finds. "I'll say no because you'll ruin them with your overload of spices."

He gawks and for a second time, watches her spin around and storm out.

* * *

She is seated as far away from the kitchen as possible, abandoning her usual bar-stool for that of a dimly lit table in the corner. Molly, he remembers, is slouching in her chair, tracing invisible lines in the wood on the counter. She's still wearing dirt, but not as much as the previous day. Her eyes are downcast, and he briefly wonders why she looks so melancholy. Not that it's any of his business. Not that he cares.

Her eyes flicker and meet his for a second. There's no greeting in hello. There's no smile of recognition. She just stares, lips in a flat line, eyebrows knitted as if she's thinking deeply about something. Chase glowers back, determined not to be the first to look away in this contest. She mouths something, purple perhaps, before the patterns in the table recapture her attention.

Chase returns his attention to the fish on the counter, wondering why she stated that particular color until he realizes something. His eyes are that color. She was taking note of his eye color. He whirls around, a sentence hanging on the brim of his tongue, before setting eyes on an empty table. The sound of light wind and humming rain fills his ears as he watches the door to the entrance close behind the ghostly figure.

Chase is almost certain he has a stalker on his hand. A dirt wearing, bad taste in cooking, eye color looking, stalker. And a bad one at that.

* * *

 **This is something I've been working on for about a month. It was originally supposed to be a oneshot, but it was apparent it was going to evolve into something larger. I've never written Harvest Moon before, so this is a bit out of my comfort zone. I normally don't write present tense either, but I found it came very easy. I hope you all enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it. No promises on when I will update next.**

 **Feedback is welcome, as always.**


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